My Heroes Have Always Been Cyclists

Watching the Tour de France this summer, I've been examining near daily why it is I love Lance Armstrong - and by proxy, the Tour de France - so very much.  Why I love the Tour is fairly easy: it's one of the last situations on earth where cheating is not tolerated, good sportsmanship is expected, and determination is maybe just a tad more important than physical ability - an underdog has just as much a shot at taking it as anyone else, and the whole thing can turn on a dime; one day you're down without a chance in hell of catching up, the next you're in yellow and winning the race.  The men who race the Tour are incredible athletes, and I wish I had one tenth their drive and resolve.  So my love of the race is no big mystery.  But why Lance Armstrong?  What is it about him that causes such excitement and joy?  In part, that's a tough call.  What makes a sports hero, and why do we love them? What need do they fulfill?  On the surface, it's easy to check off the big things: he not only survived cancer, he came back from it to win the Tour de France a record 7 times in a row; he spends his time tirelessly working to raise money for cancer and help motivate others with the disease to kick its ass as he did; he's a good sportsman; he's a winner.  But those aren't actually the reasons I love the man, though they certainly don't hurt.  No, I love Lance Armstrong because he walks softly, carries a big stick, is a shrewd competitor, and he gets it done - without bluster or excuses.

At least, that's why I thought I admired him.

But this Tour has shown me there's more to it than that.  After 4 years away from the toughest sporting event in the entire world, he had the guts to return to it, at 37 years of age, in the face of near constant and false accusations of doping, against pretty much all odds, to say, "I'm back, I'm here, and not only do I not dope, I'm gonna take all the crap you can throw at me and more, and I'm gonna kick all of your butts AND take your names while I'm at it.  And you know why?  Because I love cycling, and I hate cancer, and I'm so committed to raising awareness that I'm gonna put up with everything you can throw at me, PLUS ride my bike 2500 miles in the heat and cold and wind and rain, up mountains other people can barely walk up,  and then right back down through winding, switchback roads at ridiculously high, dangerous speeds, all for FREE.  So taste THAT, World. I. Am. HERE."

It would have been easy to rest on his laurels, work with the foundation that bears his name, and hang out with more than a few of the world's hoi palloi and movers and shakers, living the cush life, but he didn't do that.  He came back to the race, and he did it pretty much on his terms, and he gives me a reason to keep going every day, even when I feel miserable. Because if Lance Armstrong can return to the Tour, I can get back in shape.  And if he wins, I am not old, and I do not have to give in to aging. Every single doping control he passes with flying colors (despite what seems to be a petty vendetta by the UCI) is vindication for my belief that a human being can accomplish great things honestly, without cheating or lying or doping or any other deceitful practice.  That, most of all, hard work and perseverence really do pay off, even if it's only some of the time.

It's been a rollercoaster ride, this Tour. Despite my hopes and the fact that he's been riding well, Lance hasn't won any stages, nor has he at any point in the race been wearing yellow.  And I admit to feeling more than a passing bit of animosity towards Alberto Contador, who may or may not be referred to as "the weasel" in this household...and a few of my tweets.  It was tough to watch Contador pull away from Lance and to see the Spaniard in yellow, especially when it seems as though Contador has more than a few attitude problems and demonstrates some very unsportsmanlike behavior - and on a purely emotional level, Contador's Stage 15 move into yellow was akin to watching Lex Luthor shoot Superman in the back and get away with it. But the thing is, with Lance, there's always next time.  And when you least expect it, he will roll right over you with an apparent ease mindboggling in its beauty.  So maybe this isn't the year he will once again stand in yellow on the podium in Paris, and maybe it is.  But one thing I do know is this: if he wants to, he'll stand there again someday.  And that is good enough for me.